The ancient streets of Istanbul – once capital to four great empires over a vast history, formerly dubbed Constantinople – are no place for a young American female traveling alone. Especially not one who is tall, blonde, pale, and a wee bit reckless.

Fortunately, common sense doesn't make for a great story.

It was the summer of 2012. I was finishing my Master's degree in England, and the continent had been calling my name for some time. Eschewing cliches and anything ordinary, I'd forgone a whirlwind train trip through various European capitals for a lengthy solo journey to Istanbul, Athens, and Venice.

For two weeks, I was set with books as my only companions and a squashed carry-on suitcase housing my provisions. What more could a girl need?

I arrived in Istanbul just before midnight. Stepping on to the tarmac, I was almost suffocated by the heat. England had offered me its very best summer weather – a week of sunshine back in March followed by months of rainy misery – so I embraced the stifling evening heat.

I'd seen the inky blackness of the Sea of Marmara from the plane, dotted along the edges with bright yellow and white like strings of Christmas lights, and the weightiness of its blackness paralleled the heat that enveloped me like a blanket. I passed through border control, made my way to the exit, and waited.

Foresight (and travel experience) led me to arrange for my first-ever personal car to pick me up from the airport, rather than attempt to navigate the Turkish public transit alone at 11PM before its 12PM closure. Besides, the car service's website boasted the lowest rates in the city, and the driver would even use an iPad to display my name in the line of black-hatted drivers waiting outside the security gate.

Expecting the glow of an iPad, a mysterious Turkish driver speaking wonderfully accented English, and a sleek black car (I was going for sexy), I was supremely disappointed to arrive to a scrawled note on paper, a disheveled Turkish man speaking no English, and a van.

It wasn't terrifying at all.

Still, being naive, I climbed into the van, and it took me across the city from "old" Istanbul to "new". We crossed the Bosphorus toward Galata, and I was stunned by the portrait of Istanbul that was being painted before my very eyes.

Orange and yellow hues splashed across both crumbling stone and fresh concrete, a testament to the one-of-a-kind location of this spectacular city. Straddling both Europe and Asia, East and West – new and old – collide in a sensational display of sights, smells, and sounds that most westerners will never see, let alone dream of.

However, the sleeping giant of Istanbul fools the wayward traveller at night into thinking that its majesty can be grasped, contained, and experienced fully.

When push comes to shove? We never will.

Luckily, even the attempt to experience all that is Istanbul was enough to leave me absolutely breathless.

I'd label that as worth it.